Chapter Eight #2
Although that thought took her mind down some very inappropriate avenues and she moved away quickly, lest he should see them in her eyes.
“Here.” He walked to the very end of the shelf and reached for a leather-bound book. “I think this might be it…”
She returned to his side and watched as he carefully untied the ribbon holding it together. “It looks quite old,” she commented.
“I agree. This paper has seen more than a few decades…” He looked around. “Over there. That table, near the Cup. Let’s put it there before opening it. I want to keep it in good condition if I can.”
They stood over the open book and stared at it, Geraldine marvelling at the history it contained.
“So many years,” she whispered. “How amazing.”
Blaine turned the pages gently. “It is, isn’t it? A true piece of Upper Bicklesworthy history.”
“Can you turn to the most recent?”
“Of course. Here is last year’s entry.”
“Yes. There it is.” She squinted at the writing. “Not very clear, but I recognise the name. Tom Hibberston, from Fox Mere.” She glanced up at him. “One of the nearby villages. Tom was lucky with his horse, as I recall. A really strong and beautiful chestnut. He’ll probably enter again this year.”
“D’you think so?”
His gaze was fixed on her face as they stood close together in front of the book. There was something in his expression…
She swallowed and nodded, not trusting her voice at that moment as she stared up at him, near enough to catch a hint of her own reflection in his eyes. He seemed to surround her, overwhelming her senses.
“Blaine, I want…”
“What, Gerry? What do you want?”
His lips moved as he spoke, fascinating her, tempting her. “I’m not sure,” she replied, a mere whisper from a throat that was filled with emotions.
“I am,” he murmured, lifting his hand and cupping the back of her head. “I’ve never been more sure of anything…”
He lowered his head, and Geraldine found her eyes closing as his mouth found hers.
This was no quickly stolen touch or unwanted caress.
This was the kiss to end all kisses – her first kiss – and she heard her own slight moan as if it came from someone else.
His mouth was warm and tender, and his tongue moved on her lips, making her gasp and part them wide.
It was, apparently, just what he wanted, because she suddenly tasted him, really tasted him, as he slid inside her mouth.
She opened to welcome him, sliding into his arms, allowing her own to rise and circle his neck.
Everything seemed to happen so naturally, so smoothly.
There was a warm hand at the base of her spine, pressing their bodies together, and she obeyed willingly, craving the contact, her heart thundering beneath her blouse as her breasts crushed against his chest.
It was heady, exciting, magnificent…she surrendered to the moment eagerly, throwing herself into the pleasure of his touch.
He seemed to be relishing it as much as she, judging from the way he duelled with her tongue, and tightened his clasp on her until she could barely catch her breath.
She found his neck, played with his hair, catching it in her fingers and hanging on as if to anchor herself to him.
How long it would have gone on, she had no idea. Perhaps forever, if she was lucky.
But her luck failed to hold.
“Well, hullo there.” An amused male voice sounded from the door. “Perhaps I should return at a more convenient time?”
Blaine jumped, gasped, and spun on his heel, nearly knocking over the Mistletoe Cup, which was resting on the shelf nearby.
“Dear God, Fitz. What the hell are you doing, sneaking up like that?” Blaine stared at the newcomer.
“I didn’t sneak,” he protested. “I never sneak. I walk quietly and elegantly. And I seldom knock on library doors, especially when they’re half open.” His gaze drifted to Geraldine, and he smiled. “Hullo.”
She glanced at Blaine, then back at the stranger. “Hullo.”
Recalling himself, he took a step back. “Allow me to introduce a dear friend,” he said. “Mr Fitzallan Wilde. A gentleman I’ve known for years, who has the frightening ability to turn up at exactly the right place at exactly the wrong moment.” He glanced at her. “As he has just proved.”
She managed a smile. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Wilde’s smile broadened. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Miss…?”
“Foster. Geraldine Foster.” She curtseyed.
“Ah, you reside at Holly Grange then?”
“I do, sir.”
“Please…call me Fitz? All these sirs are making me feel like my late, unlamented father.” He grinned, in that way Blaine knew drew women to him like bees to honey.
“Perhaps I should be leaving,” she turned to Blaine. “You’ll be wishing to enjoy your friend’s company. I’m sure we will be speaking later about the Mistletoe Cup.”
He received a very pointed look and managed not to grin. “We shall indeed, Miss Foster.” He sighed, knowing there was no help for it. “I will summon the carriage to take you home.”
“You’re very kind. I appreciate it.”
Under Fitz’s watchful eyes, they all walked back into the hall, where Blaine made his requirements known.
Shortly thereafter, buttoned into her jacket, and correctly wearing bonnet and gloves, Miss Foster curtseyed to both men, thanking Blaine politely for his courtesy and the pleasure of the visit.
All the appropriate farewells were said, and he tried very hard to overlook the undercurrent swirling between them, since he knew Fitz was itching for information.
With a last farewell, he waved the carriage away, closed the front door, and turned to his friend. “Brandy?”
“Definitely. Where?”
“In the parlour. Over there.”
They walked silently through the hall and into the snug room, Fitz marching to the fireplace and holding out his hands. “Bloody cold down this way,” he observed.
“I take it you’re staying for a while?” Blaine crossed the room to the sideboard and picked up a decanter.
“Let me taste your brandy before I decide.”
Blaine huffed out a laugh. “Do you doubt that it’s the finest?” He quirked an eyebrow. “It was my father’s.”
Fitz took the proffered glass and tasted, then closed his eyes for a moment, appreciating the fine bouquet. “The man never scrimped on his own supplies, did he?”
“No.” Blaine sipped too, enjoying the warmth and the bite at the back of his throat. “So what brings you down here, Fitz? I had no word you were arriving…”
The two men sat, comfortable with each other as only friends of many years could be.
“Well, there was this woman…”
“Of course there was. There always is.”
Fitz winced. “Yes. I know. But what can I say? I’m irresistible, apparently.”
“You could make an effort to avoid temptation.”
His friend stared at him. “Only if I’m dead, lad. Temptation is my middle name.”
“It’s Francis, actually.”
“You know what I mean.”
Blaine sighed. “Yes, I do. A pretty woman flutters her eyelashes and the next thing the two of you are enjoying a great deal of bliss. Naked bliss.” He took a healthy swig of his brandy. “You must learn to say no, Fitz. You’ll wear out before you’re thirty.”
“Better worn out than worn down by boredom,” he answered, with a pointed look around him.
“I’m not bored.”
“And I’ll wager a pony that the charming young lady who just left has something to do with that. Because according to your sister, this place was a dark and lonely tomb in which she refused to be incarcerated for more than a day or so.”
Blaine chuckled. “I kicked her out after a day or so. Couldn’t stand the whining.”
“I’d probably have done the same, but still…”
“I am not bored, Fitz.” He looked around the room. “There is, in fact, a lot to be done. My sire, damn his soul, let many business matters slide, so it’s up to me to bring this place back to where it should be.” He refilled his glass. “D’you know he hadn’t paid the staff in months?”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Agreed, but still it was damned cruel of him.”
Mimicking his friend, Fitz rose and topped up his own brandy. “So are we going to sit here and get companionably drunk by a warm fire, or are you going to tell me about the delectable Miss Foster?”
Blaine stared, then smiled. “If I don’t, you’ll hound me to the very edges of hell.
I know you, Mr Wilde.” And he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.
“She’s quite charming and wants to be a jockey.
Which is where you come in, dear Fitz. You arrived at the perfect time. ” He paused. “Well, almost.”
“A jockey?” Fitz’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes,” nodded Blaine. “It all has to do with a race called the Mistletoe Cup…”
Mrs Foster beamed at her daughter. “How kind of Sir Blaine to send you home in his carriage, Geraldine.” They had retreated to the parlour, where her mother was subjecting her to an in-depth inquisition.
“Well, since Jepson had brought Flora home, he really didn’t have much choice, Mama,” she replied.
“I suppose not, but even so it was very thoughtful.”
Geraldine sighed. This was exactly what she had not wanted to happen. “It was the correct thing to do. Nothing more. Please don’t make too much of it, all right?”
“He is coming to the Christmas Party, isn’t he?”
Apparently, her mother had suddenly been afflicted with deafness. “I believe so, but I have not asked him directly.”
“No, of course not. That would be quite improper of you. But if he should mention it at all, you might certainly let him know you will save him a dance or two…”
Geraldine closed her eyes briefly and prayed for patience. “Mama. I shall do no such thing. I beg of you to stop this. Only this morning, I refused one suitor. I’d as soon not be thrown into a situation where I’m forced to refuse another.”
“Ah, yes. Well, that was rather my fault, I’m afraid. Rovington seemed everything that was appropriate in a husband. But I will admit I was in error.”